


Cinder: Adjustments

by wheel_pen



Series: Cinder [3]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M, Slavery, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-25
Updated: 2015-04-25
Packaged: 2018-03-25 18:17:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3820150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cinder has some trouble getting used to his master’s rules—and breaking them carries a heavy price. No cheating, no smoking, and if you stow away, you might not like what you see. Snippets of some unfinished stories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Shooting

**Author's Note:**

> The bad words are censored; that’s just how I do things. 
> 
> Technically Cinder is not a slave, but he’s still living under subjugation; inherent in this are dubious consent, unhealthy relationships, and violence.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this original work, which was inspired by many different stories.

The night was frigid, colder than anything else the boy had experienced, with a bone-chilling wind off the black sea to the north and the stars glittering tauntingly overhead. He pulled the thick wool coat more tightly around him as he crouched in the shadows beside the inn, wishing he had listened to Patrick and stayed where it was warm, at the mansion. But his master was going somewhere, somewhere important, and Yasen wanted to be part of the excitement. Even if he had to stow away in order to do it.

 

The little fishing village on the north shore was indeed bristling with excitement, tension, fear even, at the Shashka’s imminent arrival to address the concerns of the rebels, and the streets were dark and silent now, except for the guards patrolling them. Almost everyone was shut up tight in their little cottages, lights out, no doubt peering out their windows for a glimpse of the Shashka when he finally appeared. At last the small caravan of SUVs arrived, black and bulletproofed like the guard cars that had preceded them, and after a moment Patrick appeared to hold open the car door.

 

Yasen felt the tension rise in the street as Oleg’s long, dark figure exited the vehicle—or maybe it was only in himself. He shrank back against the stone foundation as much as he could, suddenly feeling very exposed, as if Oleg would immediately spot him through the stack of barrels and crates, his steel-grey eyes cold with fury at being disobeyed.

 

But Oleg did not even glance in his direction, nor did anyone else, as they approached the inn. Yasen had been watching the crowd inside for an hour or so, a group of rough-looking fishermen and tradesmen who pumped each other up with speeches Yasen couldn’t understand. If he didn’t grasp the details, the boy could at least divine their intent: angry tones punctuated by violent gestures drew whoops of approval from those assembled, and they had steadily made him more nervous for his master’s safety. The men inside this small, dark room, in their own village, were obviously upset about something, and from what Patrick had said, they blamed the Shashka for it.

 

Yasen could tell the news of Oleg’s arrival had reached the dissidents when their talking ceased and they became stiff and nervous. Several carried guns or more homemade weapons, axes and knives. Really they were no match against the trained soldiers outside, but many people could easily be hurt—or killed—in the current climate, if the emotions became uncontrolled.

 

But Yasen should have known Oleg was the master of control. Patrick was left standing attentively at the doorway, and through his crack in the wood paneling the boy saw Oleg stride into the close, smoky inn as easily as he crossed his own throne room. He barely paused to survey the crowd with his icy hauteur before he dropped into a chair at the main table, looking expectantly at the surprised villagers. He asked, Yasen guessed, for the leader to step forward, and a wiry, 30ish man with a determined look in his eye sat down across from Oleg.

 

For a while Yasen tried to pick out words he knew in their language, and to guess what was being said from the tone and body language. Oleg, however, was calm and controlled in all that he did and said, down to the smallest of gestures, and as time passed the crowd relaxed a bit. Yasen thought it was funny that three dozen laborers should so fear one man who had walked into their midst alone, even if he _was_ the Shashka, with a fearsome reputation. Eventually, as the minutes dragged out to an hour of discussion about, presumably, why the townspeople had rebelled, the boy felt the cold again. He knew better than to fall asleep—he would miss his ride back to the mansion they were lodging at, or worse, never wake up at all—but his muscles were stiff from the frosty air and the cramped quarters, and he shifted restlessly.

 

Finally the talk seemed to be winding down, and the boy couldn’t decide if he was glad it was over or disappointed that it had been so anticlimactic. Oleg stood and pulled his leather gloves back on, calling out an order to Patrick that was met with approval by the crowd. Patrick passed it on to several of the other men, who jogged off.

 

Oleg was being so casual, almost pleasant, to the crowd of peasants, which Yasen knew was actually _not_ a good sign. Cheers rose up at one of his suggestions, and after some deliberation, two more men were squeezed out of the crowd. Yasen recognized them from their earlier speeches. Oleg was making his own speech now—something deliberate, cold, final, that began to worry those assembled. And then he pulled his gun from its holster and shot the three men—the one he’d been talking to, and the two new ones—in the head.

 

The sound was incredible in the still night. Yasen jumped once, twice, three times, the breath gone from his body as he scrambled backwards, as if being unable to see the bodies on the floor would make it less real. He heard a dozen guns cock, but none fired, and in a moment his master appeared, unharmed and unruffled, in the yard before the inn. His soldiers had returned with two pleading men dragged between them, who sank to their knees in the icy mud before their Shashka. Eyes narrowed in cold fury, Oleg barely listened to their cries before he fired again, twice, leaving utter silence.

 

Yasen was breathing hard, panic rising in his chest, along with the strong desire to be sick, and he didn’t care who heard him. Oleg was saying something to the shaken crowd that stumbled outside, no doubt some pronouncement about how his word was law, but all Yasen could think about was finding the smallest, darkest space he could to wedge himself into and hide. His master—who had held him and kissed him and spoken to him in soothing tones, and also yelled at him and left bruises on his body—had just murdered _five_ people, in cold blood. Ice cold. People who hadn’t threatened him, who had begged for their lives—and now their brains and blood were scattered across the street, across the floor of the inn, and surely their comrades were going to riot now, to attack Oleg’s soldiers with their guns and axes and knives, and then the soldiers would shoot back—

 

Something grabbed the collar of Yasen’s coat, yanking him to numb feet, and he stared into the inscrutable eyes of his master. Oleg shoved the boy forward, half-dragging him to the awaiting car. Terror kept his legs from working, either to help or to resist, and when he finally reached the warmth of the vehicle he scrambled to the farthest corner of it, shaking with a sick cold that went down to his bones.


	2. A Carrot

It was a bizarre thing to be pleased about, Jason supposed, but there it was—he had worked hard for the benefit of his…lover? Boyfriend? Master? And it had paid off beautifully, he thought. So when he was hauled roughly to his feet, the boy expected a kiss and some complimentary phrases, which he wouldn’t be able to understand. Instead, he saw a hard, suspicious glint in his _kozyain’s_ grey eyes, and the unfathomable phrases were demanding and pointed. “Didn’t you like it?” Jason asked somewhat hesitantly. “I did a good job this time, didn’t I? I’ve been practicing…”

 

The Shashka didn’t speak English, Jason knew, but something in the boy’s tone must have set him off. “ _Skadeva!_ ” he hissed, shoving Jason away. The boy stared at him in utter confusion. “ _No davera abrustk meray anychik!_ ”

 

“What’s wrong?” Jason demanded. “What did I do?” The expression on his master’s face was as dark as a thundercloud, a terrifying mask of fury that rooted the boy in his tracks. He couldn’t even dodge when the Shashka grabbed his arm, squeezing painfully, and backed him hard against the armoire. “Ow!”

 

His master’s eyes were cold as his gaze bored into Jason’s. “ _Skynda nobrosk tavitchka aveda, malchik!_ ”

 

“Let me go! What’s wrong?” Jason asked again, squirming against the Shashka’s grip. “I don’t understand!” The Shashka shook his head, a sneer of contempt curling his lip, and stepped back, releasing the boy. Breathing hard, Jason watched him angrily. “What did I do wrong?” he shouted.

 

His answer was a stinging smack across the cheek that brought tears to the boy’s eyes. “Patrick!” Almost immediately the Irish sergeant opened the door to the bedroom.

 

“Aye, sir?” The boy was tossed through the doorway, barely kept from falling face-first onto the hard stone floor by the Shashka’s chief assistant. The Shashka gave him a vicious-sounding string of orders—then slammed the door in the boy’s face.

 

Patrick sighed and righted the boy. The lad was supposed to keep his commander in a _good_ mood, not drive him from it. This could be a very sticky mess to sort out, no pun intended. The Irishman gingerly lowered the boy to sit on the stairs and gave him a firm look.

 

“Now lad, just _what_ have you been up to?”

 

“I don’t know!” Yasen protested, sniffling a little. “Nothing! I don’t know what he’s mad about!”

 

“Well, just what happened, then?”

 

The boy’s cheeks reddened. “I was just—“ He couldn’t think of how to explain it without, well, saying anything embarrassing. “I was—He always laughs at me, because I can’t—I can’t, without gagging—“ Patrick sighed again and nodded. “—but I’ve been working on it—“ The older man raised his eyebrows in surprise, which the boy missed. “‑‑I thought he’d like it, when I could do it right…this is so stupid--“

 

Patrick dropped down on the stair beside the boy, who was not doing a very good job at not crying. “Alright, look, lad,” he began reluctantly, “I _know_ I told you, several times, that you were not to have sex with anyone else. You’re the Shashka’s boy, and he doesn’t share. That’s the way it is.” How could even _this_ kid screw up that command? Possibly the _one_ thing the Shashka could never forgive…

 

Yasen looked up at him in alarm. “But I didn’t! I know I’m not supposed to, and I didn’t! I mean, I wouldn’t want to…”

 

Now it was Patrick’s turn to be confused. “Well then how have you been ‘working on it’?”

 

The boy’s blush deepened and he squirmed a bit, refusing to meet the Sergeant’s eye. “I, um…It’s stupid, you’ll laugh at me.”

 

“Lad,” Patrick told him seriously, “he just told me to throw you off the High Tower. He wants to see your bones at the foot in the morning. So this really isn’t the time to worry about your pride.”

 

Yasen considered that, although perhaps not as seriously as Patrick intended. “I used a…” Patrick raised an eyebrow. “It was a carrot,” he finished hurriedly, eyes on the ground.

 

The corner of Patrick’s mouth twitched. “A carrot.”

 

“I got it from the kitchens. I thought, you know, I could practice, so I wouldn’t gag—“

 

“Well, that’s very resourceful of you, lad,” Patrick managed, straight-faced.

 

Yasen felt better having admitted it. “Yeah, it’s not exactly accurate, of course, although as carrots go, it’s a pretty good-sized one, ‘cause one of those stringy ones wouldn’t have been right at all—“

 

“Alright, then, lad,” Patrick interrupted, before the boy could get _too_ detailed. “You wait here, and I’ll go chat with him.”

 

Yasen nodded as Patrick stood, then grabbed his arm. “But you won’t tell him, will you?” he asked earnestly. “I mean, he’ll never let me forget it!”

 

“How about I tell him whatever I need to, so I don’t have to kill you?” Patrick asked in exasperation.

 

The boy sighed as the Irishman turned back towards the door. “Patrick?” he added suddenly. “You wouldn’t really throw me off the tower, would you?”

 

“I will for certain, if you’re not right there when I come back,” the Sergeant warned, and the boy nodded quickly.

 

Steeling himself, Patrick knocked twice on the bedroom door, then entered the dim chamber and shut the door quietly behind himself. Oleg was slumped on the couch before the fire, staring unseeing at the ceiling. “Sir?” Patrick began.

 

“Did you do it?” he asked quickly.

 

“Not yet, sir.” Carefully Patrick sat down on the other end of the couch, a gesture of familiarity designed to remind his commander of their close relationship. “You like the lad, don’t you, sir?” he said conversationally.

 

“G-d, Patrick, didn’t you _tell_ him that he wasn’t—“ Oleg sighed. “I won’t have it, Patrick,” he decided firmly, sitting up. “Practicing! That’s what he said. I would’ve snapped his neck right then, but he looked so bloody pleased that he could finally manage without throwing up… He must have done a _lot_ of practicing…” Oleg stood suddenly, leaning on the mantle, and watched the flames for a moment. “Do it, Patrick. And find out who—helped him.”

 

“Sir—“

 

“Don’t you try to talk me out of it, Patrick,” Oleg told him firmly. “He’s mine alone or he’s nobody’s.”

 

“Sir, what if I could assure you that there wasn’t anyone else involved in his practice?”

 

Oleg turned back to the Sergeant in bemusement. “What?”

 

“Would you trust me, sir, if I told you that no one helped him?”

 

Trusting Patrick was not in question. Oleg trusted him with everything. But he still didn’t quite understand. “No one helped him?” Patrick nodded. “Patrick, he’s not been—sneaking out to the stables, has he?”

 

“Ah, no, sir, at least not that I know of,” the Irishman replied with a smirk.

 

“Patrick, could you clarify this at all?” Oleg asked. “The things I’m imagining are…” Intriguing.

 

“Probably a lot more interesting than the truth,” Patrick finished. “But you know how lads are at his age. Bein’ embarrassed is worse than bein’ dead. But he was only trying to please you, sir.”

 

Oleg thought it over for a moment. “You believe him?” Patrick nodded. “Alright. Let him back in.”

 

“Aye, sir,” the Sergeant replied happily, jumping up.

 

“Thanks, Patrick,” Oleg added.

 

“Aye, sir.”

 

The boy was pacing in the hall when Patrick reappeared. “Well?” he asked anxiously.

 

“You’re to go back in,” Patrick told him with a smile. “But you’ve put him in a bit of mood now, lad, so try to cheer him up, alright?”

 

Yasen’s relief was quickly replaced by irritation. “ _I’ve_ put _him_ in a mood?” he repeated angrily. “He _hit_ me, Patrick!” Patrick rolled his eyes. Teenagers. “You _know_ he’s psychotic, he could have broken my neck or something—“

 

“Lad,” he interrupted. “He’s got a liking for you, so if you behave yourself, you’ll be alright. Now don’t keep him waiting.”

 

Yasen turned back towards the door, but stopped and added, “You didn’t tell him, did you? About the…”

 

“No vegetables were mentioned, lad,” Patrick assured him.

 

“Thanks, Patrick!” With that, the boy pulled the door back open and slipped inside. Patrick shook his head and went back to his post. Another mission successfully accomplished, he thought sardonically—it had, after all, been life-or-death. If everything went well _now_ , though, he wouldn’t be needed the rest of the night.


	3. No Smoking

Usually when Jason finished his after-work shower, the bedroom was empty, except perhaps for an impatient guard whose job was to convey him down to dinner. Today, however, he stepped out of the steaming bathroom in a fresh pair of slightly damp trousers and found his master, busily lifting up all the couch cushions in a diligent search for…something. Immediately Jason worried that he might accidentally discover the “journal” the boy had made from scraps of paper, hidden under a loose panel in the neglected couch in the corner, so he cleared his throat and put on what he felt was a helpful expression. “Hi. Are you looking for something?”

 

The Shashka gave him a long, appraising glance, which never failed to bring a flush to the boy’s cheeks, then responded in his native tongue, “ _Kniga tionika vi_ Lubitsch,” using his hands to indicate something small and squarish.

 

“Oh, it’s that poetry book, right?” Jason replied, pleased that he was beginning to understand a few words. “It was over here on the nightstand…” He crawled across the large bed, the dark comforter velvety soft under his hands, and glanced over the small ebony table. Lamp, alarm clock (not that the Shashka ever used it), old glass of water, unmentionable item that the boy knocked discreetly into the drawer, yesterday’s newspaper…no book of Russian poetry. “I don’t see it,” he admitted, and his master shrugged and went back to digging under the couches.

 

“I’ll find it,” Jason assured him, dropping back to the floor. “Maybe it just fell off the table…” Kneeling on the cold floor, he peered into the dusty darkness under the bed and hesitantly reached his hand in, hoping there were no large rodents or spiders who made that void their homes, and after some random flailing, he triumphantly produced a small volume covered in faded purple leather and dust. “Look! Look, see, I found it!”

 

The Shashka dropped the cushion in his hand—the chambermaid would wonder what they had been doing in here—and approached the boy with a smile on his face. He took the book with one hand and patted Jason’s cheek affectionately with the other. “ _Koroshi malchik_ ,” he told him, among a few other unintelligible phrases. Good boy. Jason started to smile back, but stopped when his master’s expression also changed, to one of possible displeasure. Then the Shashka shook his head, as if banishing whatever unpleasant thoughts he had just had, and stepped back, indicating that the boy should continue getting ready for dinner.

 

Quickly Jason yanked on a couple more layers of clothing, plus his socks and boots, and ran a hand through his hair to tame it a bit. Already his master was tapping his foot by the door impatiently. He was not a man who liked to wait for his dinner. “Okay, okay, I’m coming,” the boy assured him, trotting towards him.

 

Before they could get out the door, however, the Shashka stopped him, holding him in place and looking over him carefully, as if to see that he was fit to join the public company for dinner. “What?” asked Jason, as this was not the behavior he was used to. Then he saw the Shashka _sniff_ , and he felt his stomach start to sink with apprehension.

 

“ _Noziga marlov kinidich_?” his master asked, in a manner that indicated the wrong answer would be very wrong indeed.

 

Jason shook his head wildly, to convey that he didn’t understand. “I don’t know what you mean,” he insisted. “I don’t…”

 

“ _Sigareta_ ,” the Shashka replied, making a cigarette-smoking gesture.

 

“Oh,” Jason stalled. “Yeah, they were smoking in the kitchens, well, outside in the courtyard, I mean,” he explained hurriedly, unsure whether this would meet with his master’s approval or disapproval.

 

“ _Sigareta_?” the Shashka repeated, pointing at Jason in question.

 

“Me?” Quickly Jason decided that “no smoking” might be the wiser policy. “No, not me, I wasn’t smoking…” The Shashka raised an eyebrow. “No _sigareta_ ,” Jason insisted, shaking his head. “They were smoking _sigareta_ around me,” he explained, gesturing as best he could. “I took a shower, but I guess I didn’t get the smell off completely…”

 

His master seemed to accept this explanation. “ _Nyet sigareta_ ,” he added, in case the boy had any confusion about his feelings on the matter.

 

“Right, absolutely, _nyet sigareta_ ,” Jason assured him, feeling quite relieved.

 

The Shashka nodded, turned towards the door, then stopped and faced the boy with a friendly smile. He gestured Jason closer, into his arms, murmuring something in Zemelanikan that the boy didn’t quite understand. It seemed pleasant enough, though…maybe his master was just hungry for something other than dinner at the moment? Jason relaxed a bit as the Shashka began nuzzling his neck, then proceeded along his jaw and finally up to his lips. Jason just had time to idly imagine that his master tasted like strawberry wine before a horrible realization struck him: he hadn’t brushed his teeth.

 

The Shashka pulled back, his hands resting heavily on the boy’s shoulders, and Jason could see that his smile was in fact cold. He touched his own lips and said something that ended in _sigareta_ , and Jason knew he had been tested—and caught. He opened his mouth, unsure of what brilliant explanation would come tumbling out, but he never had time to speak before his master’s open hand slammed into the side of his face, the force of the blow knocking him to the ground. Curled on the floor, cradling his head that throbbed in pain, Jason dimly heard the Shashka shouting at him. “ _Nyet sigareta! Nyet obman!_ ”

 

Whatever the h—l _that_ meant, the boy thought, tears springing to his eyes, from both the pain and the situation in general. G-d, why was he stuck in this forsaken wilderness with a psychopath, who might blow his brains out at any minute? Whatever it was he’d done in his life, he didn’t deserve _this_ …As soon as he heard the door slam, and his master’s footsteps stomping down the stairs, he started crying in earnest. How pathetic he must look, the king’s little sex slave sobbing on the floor, because he’d been punished for being naughty. How was he supposed to know he wasn’t allowed to smoke? It wasn’t like anyone had ever said anything about it. And it was _one d—n cigarette_! Not even his parents threw a fit about _that_. And his eye _really_ hurt. Jason knew he needed to find some ice, or something else cold, or he was going to look horrible in a few hours, but for the moment he just curled up more tightly and let himself wallow in his misery.

 

**

 

The boy had not followed the Shashka down to dinner, and the Shashka had been in a bad mood during the whole meal. It did not take a mind of any intelligence to put the two things together, and Patrick had plenty of intelligence. He avoided the topic entirely at dinner, focusing instead on something that might cheer his commander up a little—the upcoming horse races at Mandarpena—and quietly dispatched one of his trusted guards to make sure the boy’s brains weren’t splattered all the over the Shashka’s bedroom. The guard reported back that all the couch cushions had been uprooted and tossed aside, and Patrick wondered what on earth they’d been up to and sent a chambermaid to straighten it up; but the boy was not around, and no one had seen him.

 

So Patrick was not entirely surprised when he entered his office after dinner to finish up some paperwork and found the boy crouching before the fire, holding a bag of ice to his face. Out of respect for his Sergeant’s privacy—and a complete disinterest in administrative paperwork—it was unlikely the Shashka would venture near, so the boy had taken to hiding there on occasion. Which was not entirely to Patrick’s liking. He liked the boy, really, and he appreciated that he had one of the most difficult jobs in the castle—keeping their temperamental, all-powerful ruler entertained—but Patrick definitely didn’t want to get in the middle of any disagreements his commander and the boy might have.

 

Patrick flipped on the light, causing the boy to squint in the sudden brightness, then wince as the darkening swelling around his left eye pulled. “Looks like you’re going to have quite a shiner there, lad,” Patrick observed. “Dinner’s over,” he added pointedly. “You’d better get back up there, he’ll be expecting to see you.”

 

“G-d, Patrick, he _hit_ me again,” the boy replied plaintively. “What if I’d hit my head on something and gotten a concussion or something?” The Irishman sighed and continued to his desk to set down his pile of papers. He also liked the boy because he was just about the only other Westerner in the country—and he frequently made Patrick feel as acclimated as a native, especially when he started whining about something that was perfectly obvious to everyone _but_ the boy. “This is _totally_ an abusive relationship,” Cinder continued disgustedly, staring into the flames.

 

Patrick’s response was immediate. He grabbed the boy by the front of his tunic and hauled him into a chair near the fireplace, staring into his startled brown eyes fiercely. “What _relationship_?” the Sergeant asked acidly. “He’s the ruler of the country who can do anything he wants, and you are a kitchen boy he bought, body and soul, from a slave merchant. You don’t _have_ a relationship. You have _only_ what he says you have.” Patrick let the boy go and went back to his desk. He hated to hurt the lad like that, but someday he really had to understand his place in the scheme of this new world he found himself in.

 

There was silence for a moment, as the boy presumably digested this latest pronouncement. Then—predictably—he bounced back, muttering snidely, “’All ways here are _my_ ways.’”

 

Patrick stifled a smile. He suspected that little bit of dangerous spirit was one of the things that had made the teenager one of the Shashka’s favorite toys. And it amused Patrick greatly as well. But the Sergeant was careful to keep his voice stern as he replied, “And don’t go comparing him to the Red Queen, Alice. I can assure you, he won’t appreciate it.” The boy snorted. Patrick sorted a few of his papers, then asked, “Not that I care, lad… but what did you do?”

 

“I had a cigarette today,” he admitted reluctantly, and Patrick shook his head.

 

“Ah, lad, that was not a good idea.”

 

“Really?” Cinder replied sarcastically. “Anyway, how was I supposed to know he’d go all postal on me for it?”

 

Patrick kept his opinions on the severity of his commander’s discipline to himself. “Are you sure you didn’t do anything else to upset him?” he prodded.

 

“No, nothing!” Cinder insisted. There was a pause. “Patrick, what does _obman_ mean?”

 

Suddenly things were much clearer to the Sergeant. “ _Obman_ is lying, deceit,” he answered. “I suppose you first told him you _hadn’t_ been smoking.”

 

“Well…”

 

“And then he found out that you had lied to him.”

 

“Um…”

 

“Now _that_ was the really stupid thing, boy,” Patrick concluded. “You should know, he doesn’t like being lied to.”

 

“Yeah, well…That’s no reason to hit me!” Cinder decided firmly.

 

The Sergeant rolled his eyes. “As if he needs a reason, lad. One of these days—“ Patrick stopped himself. He didn’t need to frighten the boy the completely. “Go on up, then,” he finished instead. “He’ll be waiting for you.”

 

“He’ll be mad at me,” Cinder countered, standing up.

 

“He’ll be angrier if he has to come looking for you,” Patrick pointed out.

 

Cinder nodded in agreement. “Hey, Patrick, I didn’t get any dinner…Do you have anything to eat?”

 

“No,” the Sergeant told him impatiently. “Get along.”

 

Finally the boy was out of his office, hopefully heading back to the Shashka’s bedroom. Patrick signaled to one of the guards to follow the boy, discreetly, and make sure he got there, then went back to his desk. He had been about to say something really harsh to the boy, something along the lines of, “One of these days the Shashka will call me upstairs to get rid of your body, and not one person will ask a question about it.” In retrospect he was glad he had held his tongue.

 

**

 

Jason opened the door to his master’s bedroom gingerly, hoping he wasn’t going to see another furious glare. Fortunately the main room appeared to be empty. Okay, so really he should have known better than to try and lie his way past his master… But _d—n,_ his eye hurt.

 

After a moment the boy heard the water running in the bathroom and then the commanding tones that made him wince a little bit. “ _Malchik_?” Boy. His official title.

 

Affecting a contrite manner that wasn’t _too_ far off from a more truthful wariness, Jason poked his head around the doorjamb into the huge black-and-white tiled room. His master was relaxing in the hot tub in the far corner, head resting contentedly against the padded edge of the tub. The room was already getting steamy from the hot water, and the boy’s mouth went dry as he watched a bead of sweat rolling down the older man’s face and neck. He blinked, his bruised eye pulled, and Jason tried desperately to remember that devastatingly sexy or not, the person in the bathtub had very recently given him quite a painful smack. And he was _very angry_ about it. Really.

 

The Shashka cracked an eyelid to see if the boy had responded to his call. Jason imagined he smirked a bit when he saw the black eye. The older man crooked his finger to summon Jason closer. “ _Prodhit zdes, Yasen Malchik_.”

 

Yasen Malchik. Cinder Boy. His official name, a play on Cinderella, which was apparently a widely-known folktale even in this backend of the world. Yes, very amusing.

 

Jason drifted over to the tub, trying to keep his thoughts negative. This was unfortunately becoming more and more difficult as he neared the very naked older man who seemed to be regarding him with more anticipation than anger. “Hi,” he began awkwardly.

 

The Shashka smiled at him, thoroughly entertained by his nervousness. “ _Elvera ed udovna icenkov?”_ he asked cordially, indicating a plate on the ledge at his feet.

 

“Hey, cookies!” Jason exclaimed, noticing the multi-colored pastries for the first time. He loved cookies. And he was starving, having spent dinner crying and making an icepack from an icicle just outside the office window. He started to reach for one, then stopped suddenly and faced his master, eyes narrowing (painfully). “I know what this is,” he declared suspiciously, and the Shashka raised his eyebrows questioningly. “They taught us all about abusive relationships in health class, and _this_ is the honeymoon phase.” His non-English-speaking master listened in bemusement. “You’re going to give me cookies and be all nice to me and tell me it’s never going to happen again, and then the next time _you_ think I get out of line, _bam_! It starts all over again.”

 

The teenager was genuinely beginning to work himself up again. He could imagine his master being nice and sweet to him—it happened, on occasion, though not for extended periods of time—maybe giving him presents, saying things that sounded pleasant, but it wouldn’t be real, would it? He would just be trying to lure the boy back into a false sense of security, and all the cuddling and tender phrases in the world wouldn’t—

 

Suddenly the front of the boy’s shirt was grabbed and he found himself dragged over the side of the tub into the scalding water. He barely had time to register all his new bruises before he realized he was being kissed…underwater…and hitting the back of the tub had knocked all the air out of his lungs…G-d, he was terrified, he was going to drown, or be boiled alive—but no, his master had a firm grip on him, and his master wouldn’t let him die—

 

The boy took a huge gulp of air when he was released above water and continued flailing and sputtering for several moments. He shoved his sopping hair out of his face when he heard his master laughing heartily and shouted in fury, “What’s _wrong_ with you?! You’re some kind of _lunatic_! Are you _actively_ trying to kill me, or do you just really have _no clue_ —“

 

He was grabbed again, set firmly on his master’s lap—yes, very naked confirmed—and kissed again, thoroughly, exhaustively, breathlessly. “I’m just not—“ he panted, interrupted by his soaking wet layers of tunics being stripped off, “I’m just not emotionally—“ Another kiss, and he was curled to the bottom of the tub so his boots, socks, and trousers could be roughly pulled away. “—not emotionally mature enough for a relationship like this,” he finally gasped out, gazing up into steel-grey eyes.

 

Jason imagined the expressions on his maser’s face indicated he had considered this suggestion, then replied, “Too bad.” This time, at least, he was able to take a breath before he was kissed. Something cold brushed his leg, and the boy remembered his icepack, which must have been hauled into the bathtub along with everything else. Seizing it quietly, he applied the rapidly-melting bag of ice chunks to a particularly sensitive part of his master’s body—and was rewarded by a gasp that was _not_ his own. The boy quickly regretted his playfulness, however, when he saw the gleam of an idea in his master’s eye and realized he might be getting very little sleep tonight.


End file.
